


Soprano/Alto Duet

by Ericine



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Friendships, Fashion & Couture, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lessons in trust, fighting loneliness, and potions, all while two very different women get stuck working together during the Fifth Blight.</p><p> (Or, Five Times Leliana and Morrigan were Almost Friends and One Time They Were)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soprano/Alto Duet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [librarianknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarianknight/gifts).



> Written for several reasons: Leliana and Morrigan griping at each other throughout Dragon Age physically hurts me, this one friend I have on Tumblr keeps putting Thoughts into my head, and Inquisition did not give these two nearly enough discussion time. Also, female friendships are my lifeblood, and I think these two could have an interesting one.
> 
> Takes place in a universe (which I affectionately call the Joiningverse) where all the wardens are alive and well (including both the mage wardens, though one skips off to Kirkwall...), which is something I might write more about someday.

**the first**

Her reasons are petty, but for the first time in her life, she wishes the wardens were here.

Not just Aeducan, who eyes her exactly the way a man in his position should (which is good, because he’s the only male of the group, a fact that fills her with pride even though it makes things a little harder for her). Not just Brosca, whose warm brown eyes fail to cover up that she’s made of steel and stone in a way that Morrigan is sure Orzammar will never be able to touch (she knows this because Morrigan is made of the same material; one of the first things one learns as an animal is to identify those who are most similar). 

She’d even settle for Cousland at this point, though her complete and utter devotion to the Chantry was as irritating (as, Morrigan admits, is hardly surprising for someone of her station).

She’d take any of them at this point (though Mahariel would probably be the best choice for this outing, as she, like Morrigan, shared a distaste for human clothing and style). They were a maddening group of people, more maddening when they were together in groups (and there was the fact that they all seemed to share a preference for being called by their surnames—as if they didn’t already act like a flock of very strange sheep). But that would be preferable to walking around Denerim market with only Leliana for company.

She was skipping beside Morrigan. _Actually skipping_. The woman had no grip on reality, and yet Morrigan had decided to entertain her whim to go shopping. She, Morrigan, was walking through Denerim market voluntarily with a woman who was as good as half-Orlesian (though Morrigan was sure that Leliana kept the accent for frivolous aesthetic purposes).

Yet the wardens had had the time-consuming idea of staking out Denerim while they tried to take care of the countless infinitesimal issues they had accumulated while trying to cobble together a team to battle the Blight. Except for the lead that they’d gotten from Zevran (from when Zevran had tried to _kill_ them, and yet now he walked as one of them—on the opposite side of the camp from Morrigan, at least), they had very little concrete details about what Loghain was doing at the moment.

Leliana had the most experience in Denerim from before she’d decided to join the ranks of the false pious, and Morrigan was the next person over who attracted the least amount of attention (Morrigan took this to mean that she was the human on the team who had the most _sense_ , which was a fact with which she would never argue). They were supposed to go under the guise of shopping, and Leliana had decided that the best way to pretend to shop was to actually shop.

Morrigan sighs in frustration 

Leliana looks over, and her face brightens. “Ah, that’s a good idea,” she says, in her Orlais-lite tone. “It would make sense that one of the sisters be sour—no one would look twice at that.”

“Sisters?” Morrigan asks disdainfully.

“Why, of course,” says Leliana. “Women traveling together makes it more likely we are refugees, whereas if we are sisters, no one looks twice. People always think of sisters going shopping together, which would also explain why we are not dressed up. No need in dressing up in Denerim if you are one of the masses, just going for a look at the city finery.”

Leliana wasn’t wearing armor, which Morrigan thought utterly unwise—she always wore her clothes with appropriate enchantments, while the only flimsy protection Leliana had on besides some road clothing she’d taken off a bandit was a leather helmet, mostly to hide her bright hair.

“But I assume you’re meaning to buy something?” says Morrigan, raising an eyebrow. “Do not think that I have forgotten your offer so quickly, Leliana. I know you’ve wanted to—” She shudders. “— _dress me._ ”

Leliana’s eyes widen. “Ah, I see. Well, I was thinking of coming to buy some shoes that I’d seen in passing, but if you’re keen to buy a gown, we can do that.”

“I didn’t say—”

“No need to be so modest, Morrigan,” Leliana replies. “It’s just the two of us, so there’s no better time.”

“I didn’t _mean_ —”

“Then why would you bring it up?” asks Leliana, her insultingly lilting tone flowing too easily, as if she was addressing the next logical item on a list. If Morrigan hadn’t been acutely aware of the amount of magic happening around them at the moment (none), she would have sworn she’d seen lightning flash around Leliana’s eyes.

* * *

Leliana perpetually feels like she’s tiptoeing around Morrigan, not because she’s afraid of her, but because Morrigan’s not the kind of person she can reach _to_. Morrigan’s the kind of person who Leliana has to wait to reach _for_ her.

It’s hard for Leliana to pray these days, but when she does, she prays for forgiveness for thinking that Morrigan’s as cold as one of those ice beams she’s always shooting at people.

That said, she tries not to laugh now, because Morrigan’s staring at the rainbow of silks in front of her like they’re all about to attack. “Why do Fereldens always insist on wearing long sleeves? It’s like you all gain pleasure out of binding your arms.”

“Do you want to start with a color or a texture?” Leliana asks lightly.

“We could start by leaving,” says Morrigan, and Leliana tries to hold back her sigh.

“Well, there are five of Loghain’s men stationed by the way back to camp,” says Leliana. “They’re not hostile, but we have to stay here a little longer.” 

Morrigan sighs. She’d only counted three of Loghain’s men, but she still knows that they can’t leave here this quickly, not without some information to bring back to camp. “There are two blood mages standing in front of Wade’s Emporium.” She rolls her eyes.

“We can go look at shoes instead.” When Morrigan doesn’t respond immediately, Leliana goes on instinct and continues. “I’ve heard you telling Brosca about your mother and mirrors. I’ve seen the presents Aeducan brings you—they’re all shiny and beautiful. It’s alright to want these things. It doesn’t mean it changes anything about you. It doesn’t mean that you’re anyone in particular. It just means that you’re buying something that you may or may not wear. Nothing more.”

Leliana’s not mistaken—she never is, about things like this—disappointment crosses Morrigan’s face, but when she speaks, it’s icy. “Yes, ribboned shoes. Those are important. Why don’t you _dance_ the darkspawn away?”

Leliana turns around and closes her eyes. Andraste gave selflessly in the eyes of the Maker. She must try to do the same thing.

She glances over the dresses and sees it immediately—garnet red, nearly violet, with gold trimming. Orlesian, of course—that’s why it has barely-there sleeves that arc like dragon wings. “This is exactly what I’d pick for you,” she says breezily. She starts walking out of the shop. “I’ll get a second look at the guards if you get a second look at the mages. We can meet at the shoe stall." 

She doesn’t look back when she walks out—she possesses at least three tales about people who died because they looked back. That’s why Leliana doesn’t do it unless she’s sure it’s safe, usually only as she’s falling asleep, alone with her own thoughts. 

The tales don’t say anything about peripheral vision, though, and when they’re back at camp, she sees the flash of red and gold from across the camp as Morrigan rearranges her bedding for the night.

* * *

 

**the second**

They won’t talk about it, but they’re both relieved to be left behind when Shale goes to find herself in the Deep Roads—neither of them are huge fans of the Deep Roads. The style isn’t to Leliana’s taste, and Morrigan craves an openness that the Deep Roads will never offer.

That also means that they’re cooking for the night, because no one but the wardens trust Zevran near their food and no one trusts Alistair either, for entirely different reasons.

They don’t usually talk while they cook, an unspoken agreement between them, but Leliana clears her throat today, and Morrigan looks over and blinks. “Do you need a healing potion to go with your dinner?” 

“No, but thank you for asking,” Leliana replies. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Redcliffe, and I think you’re right.”

Morrigan stirs some of her edible herbs into the pot—it’s hard to find proper vegetables that haven’t already been turned bad by the Blight, but not everyone grew up in a forest—and doesn’t look up. “Of course I was.”

“The juxtaposition was so terrible—triumph and loss, hatred and love, and—and the perversion of good intentions. You won’t mind if I sing it while we’re cooking,” says Leliana, voice lilting at the end just enough to where it seems she’s asking a question but not enough to communicate choice. Morrigan’s going to end up listening whether she wants to or not.

Morrigan has to admit that she finds the content of the song interesting, though, so she shrugs (and still doesn’t look up). The Cousland warden’s dog, probably one of the few reasons they keep finding meat, sits back on his heels at full attention.

For all the personality she lacked, Leliana’s skills were no laughing matter—the emotions she brought into her singing were true, and she was quite talented. 

“Why do you care what I think?” Morrigan asks Leliana when the bard’s finished, having successfully gathered looks from everyone in camp. Yet she’s looking to Morrigan with an expectant look. 

Leliana shrugs. “I don’t. It’s a gift for you. I am just left to wonder if it is the right one. It was your suggestion, after all.” 

“It was honest,” Morrigan tells her shortly, then begins to turn down the fire (a little earlier than she should, but there are enough in their party that will appreciate vegetables with an extra crunch). 

“I’ll get the bowls,” says Leliana. 

“You’re not going to gloat about whether or not you’re right?”

“Being right, the way you speak of it, was not my intention,” Leliana replies, and Morrigan feels like asking another question is giving too much, so she holds her tongue.

* * *

  **the third**

All the mages get knocked out in a darkspawn fight, and Mahariel puts her foot down—everyone in her clan, regardless of background or specialty, had to learn to make healing potions. Why don’t the rest of the them do the same thing?

Mahariel is the most quiet of all the wardens, but that also means that when she says something, it’s worth listening to. 

Naturally, everyone flocks to Wynne and Surana, and Leliana doesn’t wait in a line if she can help it, so she takes her share of herbs and flasks to Morrigan. “You looked lonely,” she tells her without thinking.

“I prefer it that way,” says Morrigan, rolling her eyes. “Making healing potions is like making poisons, except you’re usually using elfroot instead of more toxic herbs. Together, they crush the herb down into a fine paste. “You can crush it with anything in battle in a pinch—your fingers, your blade, the studs on your armor, anything.”

“Well, if you ever wanted company, I’m here,” says Leliana. She fills the flask easily and adds some of the sky-colored liquid to it. It glows red.

“You think friendship is always _loud_ ,” says Morrigan. “It’s all about words and touching for you. You never think that it might be different for someone else.”

“Is it?” asks Leliana.

“Repeating everything one says as a question is hardly wise. It’s what one does when talking to a child,” says Morrigan. “If you offend, I will be the first to let you know. This, I guarantee.”

They sit in silence and make fifty potions. A week later, when Tabris decides that everyone needs to learn how to put poison on their weapons, they sit in silence and make some of those. They never speak, and they craft when they don’t have to, but Leliana notes that Morrigan never sends her away.

* * *

 

**the fourth**

Leliana is probably the only person to have ever snuck up on Morrigan while she was sleeping. Morrigan notices her when she’s a few paces away, but that’s the closest anyone has ever gotten. 

Strange, as Morrigan has noticed that Leliana is capable of making her presence known acres away if she wills it.

When Leliana arrives, Morrigan’s already standing. “The camp is not under attack, so I’m sure that you have some kind of reason you’ve come and disturbed me during one of the few times I’m able to sleep.” They’d been fighting spiders all night. Morrigan had returned late, but the sky was beginning to pale. Their next expedition out was going to be in the afternoon, though.

“I brought you breakfast—”

“Just get to it."

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That much is obvious.”

“I overheard you telling Brosca that you and Warden Aeducan are equals.”

“Yes, that would make sense, seeing as we are involved in a relationship.”

“Tabris and I—”

“You want to talk about this? With me? _Now_?”

“Yes,” says Leliana. “With you. Because I have made a terrible mistake.”

Morrigan’s lips turn up just a little bit. “Ah, yes. Your ill-informed prejudice against elves. Your guilt helps no one.”

“I wouldn’t come here to talk about her business with you,” says Leliana, with the sharpness Morrigan has come to hear in her voice lately. It makes her much less agreeable and quite a bit more tolerable. “I want to talk about lying.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? I would go back to being a bard. You live as an apostate. How do you know that your lies aren’t going to hurt your relationship?”

Morrigan feels something inside herself contract, and she pushes the feeling into what she says instead. “We’re hardly lying to each other. An apostate is only lying under the rules of the Chantry, which are idiotic.”

Leliana frowns. “So you are true to your conscience. That is enough.”

Morrigan can’t look her in the eye, but she doesn’t make a habit of staring people down. “There is no other judge of one’s character that makes sense.”

“I will think on what you have said,” Leliana tells her. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You’re not,” Morrigan tells her, but she takes the food offering and eats it anyway.

* * *

 

**the fifth**

It’s happening so fast until it’s _not_.

Leliana sees a rainbow of colors streaming from Morrigan’s direction, somewhere on her right. Leliana’s made some kind of cocktail out of her poisons. Her arrows glow as she shoot them into the air as she run and dodges, runs and dodges. Every once in a while, she shoots a ballista, but the archdemon is getting weak, so they’ve moved in.

Leliana’s truly not sure if they have that long, but they have her as long as she has arrows (seemingly infinite, really—she can’t remember a time she’s run out).

Then, suddenly, it _screams_. It’s screamed before in a way that paralyzes everything around it, but Leliana’s still moving this time. She sees the wardens—she’s assuming all of them, minus Alistair, who Cousland had demanded be left outside the city gates (he’d protested, and Leliana had remained silent, but it made sense—he was going to be king, after all)—running toward it. Leliana aims another poisoned arrow right at its neck (just in case), just as she sees it light up purple—Morrigan’s had the same idea.

She knows that something Maker-worthy is going to happen, but she’s not prepared for the beam of light that comes out of its head when they stab it. It’s brighter than the sun, but she can’t look away.

Morrigan can, though, and she looks at _Leliana_ of all people, more surprised than Leliana’s ever seen her, probably more surprised than she’s ever let anyone see her. Leliana wants to say something back to her, but all she can do is stare back, somber-eyed.

She’s reaching for her when they get blown back, and she swears Morrigan was reaching for her too.

She thinks she remembers thin, cold, calloused hands on her face and arms, a deep and lorelike voice telling her she’d recover in time.

When she wakes up, Morrigan is gone.

* * *

 

**reunion**

They see each other at the ball, but there’s too much going on then to even acknowledge seeing each other. Leliana just happens to be having a conversation with an agent by the room that’s assigned to Morrigan and just happens to finish it when Morrigan walks up.

“Seems we’re destined to meet whenever the world’s falling apart,” says Leliana by way of greeting.

“Seems it’s some kind of bad omen, then,” Morrigan replies.

“I liked your dress.”

“I was surprised that you weren’t in something even more frilly and extravagant.”

Leliana smiles. “Yes, well, you’ll meet Josephine soon enough. She thought it best if we presented a united front.”

“A very noticeable front. An old friend of yours, then?”

Leliana nods. “I would have allowed a little more personality in the costumes, but I am not as diplomatic as Josephine.”

“If the rumors are true, you’re right, certainly.” She examines her in a stare, only for a moment. “You’re sharper than you used to be.”

“You’re the same.”

“Perhaps.”

Leliana looks at Morrigan’s bags. “Are those all of your things?” Morrigan nods. “Still traveling light, I see.”

“Not as light as I used to.”

“Well, we’ll talk after you’re settled in, I’m sure.” She half-nods, half-bows, then begins to walk away.

“Spymaster.”

Leliana turns around. “Advisor?”

“Do you still have a palate for cherry wine?”

“I don’t drink much anymore,” Leliana tells her. “But yes.”

“Join me for breakfast.”

“Wine for breakfast?" All of the newfound coldness Leliana possessed couldn't keep her lips from turning up at the suggestion. "Perhaps you have changed.”

Morrigan jerks her head toward the window. “It’s still dark out. I don’t think a lot of people know what it’s like to travel so often under the cover of darkness.” 

“You don’t have to be so polite,” Leliana tells her, more shortly than either of them expected her to. 

Morrigan frowns, just slightly. “I’m not, but there are things we can discuss. You’ve done a lot since I’ve seen you last.” 

“I’d help you with your things, but I know you don’t like that,” says Leliana quietly. “I will gladly join you. Is there anything you want me to tell the kitchens to prepare beforehand?” Morrigan shakes her head. “I will wait for you then.”

“My pleasure,” Morrigan tells her, and sweeps ( _sweeps_ , she’s learned to do that since Leliana saw her last) into her room.


End file.
